


Vindicated

by lookingforatardis



Series: find your way back [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Longing, M/M, Oliver doesnt know what to do about how much he loves elio, Side Story, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-08-22 08:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Oliver's POV to "this ruined puzzle." Read that first!!!!! (Ch. 1 correlates with ch. 8 of trp) Read ch. notes for more context.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD WE'RE HERE!!!!!! Since the start of this story, I've been able to have a lot of conversations with you guys about voice. From the very conception of this story, I've had every intention of introducing different POV's into it and have been writing this chapter for like a month now. Something I absolutely LOVE to do with writing is expose and play with voice, so I always knew we'd end up here and it would be my job as a writer to weave the voices into one another in such a way that feels true to each character. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it.

"Dad, come on! I see Sam!" I accept the wine from the bartender who looks a _little_ too young and a _little_ too interested in the parents here to be serving alcohol before turning to catch up to my boys. They never gave me a choice as to whether or not I'd be coming to this, though I didn't particularly mind. The mere fact that they'd shown interest in something social like this was enough for me to agree. I couldn't help but thank Sam for it, if only silently. I'm aware of his influence over them, of his quiet confidence and how they'd follow if he asked. When he suggested it at dinner one day, I knew before Andrew even opened his mouth that we'd all be attending.

The first day he came over, I watched him turn conversations over with shy smiles and tentative wit until he became comfortable, an _almost unbearable_ side of sass emerging from his unsuspecting body with a sharp tongue and familiar smile. It was like being transported back to a simpler time in my life where words were exchanged without care, despite the words being chosen with purpose and meaning. He picked up my books and asked about them in ways my sons never had and I'd gone to bed feeling uncharacteristically guilty for wondering what it would be like if my sons were more like him. Not that I don't love my sons, I do, and I wouldn't change a thing about them. But he seemed to fit in such a way that made me realize we'd had a gap.

It didn't take long for me to notice the shift in their behavior, the slight disturbance in their everyday bickering. Sam came over and suddenly everything fell into place, the three of them finding a rhythm with each other faster than myself with any friendship I'd ever had. I suspected after the first week that perhaps things were less than great at home for him; his shifty eyes when asked about his family, the reluctance to reveal too much about himself, the sheer amount of times he came over for dinner and stayed late enough that I gave him money for a cab to avoid the terror of thinking of him walking the streets alone. When he admitted his mother had left, I felt a piece of myself break off and dissolve. I'd grown attached, I realized too late. He'd become a part of my dysfunctional family so quickly that I'd missed the switch being flipped between my sons asking if he could come over, and simply coming home after work to find him doing homework at my kitchen table.

So when he asked if we would go to Carly's show, the only option I had was to say yes. Later that night, Brandon mentioned that Sam wanted to introduce us to his father. In hindsight, I believe that moment was likely the first time I was forced to accept that I'd somehow developed an idea of his homelife in my mind, a sort of tragic and terrible (and likely unrealistic) projection of my own childhood split down the center so the picture was left with one stilted parent instead of two. Perhaps _that_ was the real reason I'd accepted him into our home without question. Perhaps all along it had been the thought that I could protect him from emotional dissonance at home. It wasn't fair, and I knew it. The thought of facing his father, a man who I'd imagined to be less than stellar, set my heart beating a little faster.

I follow my sons and accidentally run into an older woman in my haste just as Andrew calls out, _"Sam!"_ I turn to her and apologize, but she shakes me off and keeps walking. " _Hey!"_ I turn with a final "sorry" thrown over my shoulder, and suddenly everything stops. I lose control of my body almost instantly, my limbs going numb before I can begin to process. " _Where's Mr.-"_

I hear rather than feel the glass slipping between my fingers, his eyes meeting mine for the first time in well over a decade.

" _Zimmerman."_ My lungs fill with the sound of his voice, heart racing, palms regaining feeling if only to shake uncontrollably. How many years, lifetimes even, had it been? He looks older but still much the same, his hair a bit more styled, a few smile lines peeking out against the paleness of his skin. His light blue button up makes my body ache, a knit gray pullover covering all of it but the collar and the top two buttons, undone. His shoulders are a bit more broad than I remember, but perhaps I remembered him smaller than he was, though his arms still look the right size for my palms to wrap around them entirely, his thighs- though covered in dark fabric- haven't changed, his height maybe two inches more than what it was, the weight of his gaze heavier and his face featuring the slightest hint of shadow, the only element forcing me to remember the years that have passed between us. He is instantly familiar, unknown, young and grown, light and dark. His son had his-

_His son._

"You have a son?!" I exclaim, a bit louder than intended, but I can't stop myself. My heart has a mind of its own, running away from me and towards him, leaving a carcass of a body in its wake that I'm now forced to command. I feel hollow. I feel full. I feel like throwing up. I'm not sure how many times Sam has tried to gain his father's attention, but Elio looks at him now, breaking the spell I've fallen under. I force air into my lungs and know I should react when Brandon reaches out to touch my arm, but I can't breathe. My eyes are still on him,  though his attention is elsewhere.

God, how many nights had I spent staring at his profile, how many more had I spent dreaming of it? Of his jaw, slightly more defined now than before. Of his ears, his curls, the faint freckles, the cheekbones I once traced with my fingers until he awoke and blushed. It comes back in waves, and just as I open my mouth to say his name, I see something flash in his eyes, followed immediately by the trickling of blood from his nose. The air in my lungs shudders out as he covers himself, the old familiar urge to cover him taking over as I follow, barely aware of my actions and I tell his son- _his son_ \- to let me go after him.

My focus is singular as he barges through the door and looks around, shoulders rising and falling. I remember Sam telling me he goes to another school, meaning this one was unfamiliar. I approach Elio and touch his shoulder, a rookie mistake. He moves as if he's been electrocuted and I'm reminded of another time, another moment, the same hand and shoulder and reaction. He can't meet my eyes and I'm almost thankful, knowing how unprepared I am for his attention in a hallways that is not nearly empty. "Bathroom's this way," I saw quietly, motioning towards the side of the hall I inhabit. He nods, head tipped back, and follows.

I thank God when we enter and there's a bolt to lock the door. I make sure it's empty before locking it and turning towards him. He's bent over a sink, his shoulders shaking. I watch the sink turn red as he tries to wash his hands, then his nose. "Elio-"

"Don't," he says, the heel of his palm pressing against his nose. "Please don't."

I can't stand by and do nothing, I want to scream. I can't stand by when you're _hurt_ , when I haven't seen or heard from you in over a decade, when your father refuses to mention you, when you have a _son_ , when you're bleeding and I can _help._ I grab paper towels and go to him against his wishes, risking his anger in favor of helping the only way I can. He tries to shove me away when I near, and it shatters some sort of resolve I've help deep within me since I turned and saw him. "Elio, for God's sake. Let me help you!" I say, hitting the sink with my hand. He closes his eyes tight and stays put for a moment, my heart in my throat. At last, he nods and shifts slightly towards me.

It's instantly better, infinitely worse. I reach towards him and knot my fingers in his hair to tilt his head back, my other hand pressing the paper towels against his nose as his shoulders slump, hands falling to rest at the edge of the sink. His eyes are still closed, and while my heart races and fingers itch, I allow myself the moment to stare, sensing I would not be granted another chance.

The edge of his sleeves by his hands is tinted, his nail beds red, his heart racing through his layers. At least we're in synch there, I think. He allows me to hold him like this for a minute before sighing and shifting his body just slightly. It's almost as if he's allowing me in, some secret code I didn't realize I had the key to. My fingers move slowly against his scalp, goosebumps breaking out over my skin as he turns, just enough, just enough to tell me it's okay. I could cry.

His hands lift to cover my own over his nose and pulls the paper towel away. "Think I'm okay," he says softly, looking down. He presses the towel against himself once more and looks to make sure he's stopped bleeding. He has. I reluctantly pull my hand from his hair and take a step back to offer him some space. I could use some, too, come to think of it. "You have a son," I whisper. I didn't mean to say it out loud, but I can't take it back. He nods but still can't meet my eyes. "Elio--"

"Don't say my name," he interrupts. "I can't handle you saying my name right now," he admits. I nod, though he doesn't see, and feel my bones ache.

"I wish I'd known," I tell him. He sniffles and rubs the back of his head with a short nod.

"I'm sorry. I didn't… I didn't want you to know."

"Why?" I ask, chest tightening. "He's practically my sons' age, I could have-"

"I didn't want your help," he says, looking up at me for the first time. It stops my heart, his eyes barring into mine.

"Why?"

"Because."

" _Because."_

"Because… I couldn't," he says. "I just couldn't. I couldn't face you." I stare at his fumbling hands. "If I told you, then you would have wanted to talk more and more and…" He trails off and I can almost watch him cave in on himself.

"You never forgave me," I whisper. It isn't a question, but he shrugs anyway. I begin to say his name before catching myself, the letters sharp against my tongue. I try to hold his gaze, try to do anything to keep him looking at me, to catch a glimpse of some sort of emotion that might assuage me. I am denied, though, his eyes traveling anywhere and everywhere but up to match mine. I grow more nervous than I'd anticipated I might be under his attention, my palms sweating suddenly.

"What's there to forgive? You fell in love," he says. His voice is too soft to break me like this. Still, his eyes won't meet mine and like a sinking stone I can feel this moment slipping past, my one opportunity to say something, anything, is falling away. He begins walking away, my body lurching forward after him as if on autopilot. _Wait!_ It isn't until he pauses that I realize I've said it out loud, my mouth dry and heart racing. I lose all sense of time and space as my hands move of their own accord, one covering the lock to stop his efforts as the other slowly steadies itself on his back.

In an instant, I am 24 again, his body new and unfamiliar, yet closer than ever and _necessary._ I watch as it moves, my mind a muddy maze as I attempt to stop, to pull away, to ask if it's okay to touch him like this again. The ridges of his spine catch my fingers' path and I am as breathless as him, my body numb save for the fire beneath the pads of my fingers. "Oliver," I breathe. It's all I can say, the only thing I could possible say to tell him how much I've missed him, how unbelievably sorry I am for the distance that grew between us. He retracts his body momentarily and I fear I've crossed some invisible line, but he makes no real move away from me. Moisture gathers in my eyes, years of longing seeping into this one moment with him now. And just like that summer when I finally caved, I worry not about the opinion of my father, of my mother, I don't worry about the obligation I have to my sons or what this attraction I feel means in the eyes of society. I test the waters, press my hand more firmly against him as it moves. He is a dream in the flesh, every memory I have of this paling instantly as he reacts, his body softening, the smell of his cologne intoxicating. I drag my hand up, needing to map every piece of him I can, his body shaking as I find his neck with my fingers. It's too much suddenly, the need for his skin, his eyes. It scares me, the greediness I feel. I drop my hand when he scrunches up his shoulders, my touch apparently too far for him. I try to understand. "I'm sorry," I tell him, knowing how insignificant those two words are in the face of our current situation. I've gone too far, his reaction proof enough, and I can't even blame him for his hesitation when I can't confidently say I'd walk out of here with his hand in mine even if he allowed it. He was always the brave one, the fearless one. Not me.

He turns around and for a fleeting moment I think he may reciprocate, think he might tell me I'm forgiven after all, that he missed me even. I can see it in his eyes he did, but it's covered up with so much hurt that I lose faith quickly, his eyes dropping from me as he turns back to unlock the door. I watch him step away from me, the door pushing against me until I move to accommodate his exit. And for a moment, I just stand there watching it swing shut without him. I know I must face my sons, I know there will be questions I don't have the right answers to. I know I may have ruined the one friendship my sons' have clung to by loving someone I shouldn't have, that Sam might not want to come over again if Elio tells him the truth. I can hear Brandon telling me to stop assuming the worst, but I can't help it.

I walk out and find him, meeting him as he stands still, eyes searching for our sons no doubt. "We can't let this ruin their friendship," I beg him. He turns to look at me, pain in his eyes, anger even, before he walks away, taking his son as he goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter correlates with chapter 9 of "this ruined puzzle" 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Dad?" I smile at my sons and fold my arms over my chest, realize that's too closed, and drop my arms back at my sides. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, of course. I just wasn't expecting to see him," I tell them, slipping into a comfortable mask to hide the ache in my chest. "Anyway, you kids ready to go?"

"Dad," Brandon says, his eyes scanning my face. I know he must see through me.

"It's okay," I tell him. "I'm good, but it's starting to get late so we should really go. Do you need to say hello to anyone else?"

 

Our walk back to the apartment is uneventful, both boys quiet and behind me. I know I will have to tell them something, but don't quite know what. It'll be two conversations, that much I know for sure. Each footstep towards the apartment is one step closer to saying it out loud, to truly acknowledging the truths I'd stuffed in the back of my mind for years. I could hide it from Andrew a little longer, but I knew well enough that Brandon suspected exactly who Elio was.

When I open the door to the apartment, Brandon lays his hand on my shoulder as he passes. He still has to reach quite a bit and I try to remind myself of his age, his youth, to be careful with how much I tell him about that time. He had so much depth already, but he was still too young for me to justify using him as a true confidant. He didn't deserve that.

"So… how do you know Sam's dad?" Andrew asks. Ah, there it is, barely in through the door. I laugh awkwardly and smile at them.

"He's an old friend, believe it or not." They don't look terribly pleased with the answer. I wander over to the kitchen and pour a heavy handed glass of wine. After a sip, I turn back to them. "We knew each other when we were younger," I start. "Do you remember me telling you kids about Italy?" They nod. "Well, he's the professor's son."

"What?" Andrew laughs, shocked I assume. "That's so cool. When was the last time you talked?"

"Years ago," I shake my head, looking into the wine. I smile up at him. "Not since before you were born."

"We should have them over for dinner," Brandon suggests. I glance over at him only to find him leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded tightly over his chest. Sometimes when he does this, he reminds me of Elio. I swallow and look away to stop the thought.

"Maybe," I nod, primarily just to appease him. They drop the subject after a few more arbitrary questions. Finally, once everything is settled, I set them off to get ready for bed. It's hours before there's really peace and quiet in the house, both of them goofing off and talking like they always do.

All the while, I sit in the living room with an old leather book, pictures tacked in it and letters stuffed in the front. My notes from that summer fill the pages-- conversations with Prof. and edits I wanted to make on the manuscript. Half don't even make sense anymore, but the feeling of his pen's ink on the pages my father bought as a gift for my travels remind me of the days he laid in bed with me while I wrote, his fingers tracing lines up and down my back.

"Dad?" I sigh and close the book before turning to smile at Brandon.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd ever come ask me about him," I tease as he walks over to sit. He messes up his hair and bites his lip as he settles. "Go ahead, what do you want to know?"

"It's him, right?" he asks, gesturing to the letters in my lap. _It's him,_ a careful question that reminds me of another night when he found me in the same position, a letter from the leather notebook open and in my hands, the last one I ever received. The night when he confessed he'd found the letters and read them, that he was sorry. The night he asked me if this meant I liked men, or just the one. That was back before she died, back when I'd have to retreat to the living room in the middle of the night or wait for her to leave the house to look over the letters. _It's him_. I nod. "So… will you tell me about him now? Because you always said someday you'd tell me and now feels like a pretty good time." I can't help but laugh a little nervously.

"You remind me of him, actually," I tell him softly. "Just a little, in a good way. Sometimes you smile like him or… I don't know. Some of your mannerisms. It's strange, it's like he's been here in this house with us."

"I didn't know that," he says, his legs lifting to fold up on the couch. I nod at him and smile faintly, memories coming in waves.

"He looked almost the same back then, just a little smaller I guess. He was always so curious, so… Full of life and passion. He didn't do anything without pouring himself into it. Even just lounging by the pool, he'd lay there like it was all he ever wanted to do, like it was the most natural thing in the world." I realize I'm starting to ramble and look over to smile shyly at him.

"Who kissed who?" he asks, prompting me. My body remembers it like yesterday, my fingers lifting to my lips as I chuckle.

"I think I technically kissed him, it's a little blurry, the details." Liar, I think to myself. I remember it with excruciating clarity. I had kissed him, yes, but he had kissed me back, kissed me again, had grabbed me with the boldness I only dreamed to have. 

"Can I… I've been wondering something for years and I want to ask but I don't know if you'll get mad at me," he says quietly.

"It's alright, you can ask." I might not answer, I almost add. But you can always ask me anything. His hesitation intrigues me. 

"Why did… you know. You leave?" I huff out a laugh and look straight ahead, my hand lifting to run through my hair. "Nevermind--"

"No, no it's fine," I start. "I just didn't expect to get that from you too."

"Dad, you don't have to, I was just curious," he says, sinking against the couch. Of course he would be, I think to myself. Years ago, when he found the letters, he asked if I still loved him. Of course he would wonder why I left when my answer to that question hadn't been a resounding no, but rather a dismissal, a request that we drop the subject until he was older.

"I didn't have a choice, Brandon," I tell him, glancing back. "I didn't have a choice. It wasn't acceptable back then and I had a life to get back to and expectations to live up to. And anyway… He was only a few years older than your brother. I couldn't take his life away before he even started it." He just stares at me and it makes me want to say more, talk about it even though I promised myself I wouldn't let him in on the time after I walked away. "I went back once," I tell him quietly. "For that Christmas."

"I didn't know that," he shifts, leaning forward. "Was that after you and Mom--"

"We were engaged," I nod. I know I shouldn't be telling him this, that it might tarnish his perception of me, but I can't help it. He's eager to hear and I know he won't stop until he feels he has a grasp on the situation. I always thought I had a few more years before I'd have to tell him everything, before I'd go looking for Elio to reunite. I can't stop the universe from bringing us together, it seems. "I told him I was to be married on that trip."

"That's harsh," he says, his shoulders moving slightly, his arms wrapping around him.

"I know," I nod.

"But…You let him think there was a chance? I mean, you were sending letters, he must have thought there was a chance still when you went back?" I find it difficult to admit anything now that he's figuring it all out, my heart still aching from the choices I made back then when I didn't know any better.

"I wanted there to be a chance," I admit. "I need you to know that I loved your mother very much, Brandon. But I was… I was in love with him. I knew it was right to marry your mother, so I had to let go of him."

"All due respect, Dad, but…" he shakes his head and looks away. "You didn't let go."

"I did--"

"You keep a book of his letters and you practically passed out when you saw him today." I can't exactly fight him, I suppose. "Dad, come on. You're still in love with him," he says, softer. I think about Elio in the bathroom earlier, how for a few brief moments, he allowed me to touch him again before recoiling. My head drops with a heavy sigh.

"Maybe," I whisper. "But then that's my own business, isn't it?"

"Wait, what? Dad--"

"Brandon, I love that you want to know about my life," I tell him honestly. "And I know I promised to tell you about him one day, so I am. But this is something that, moving forward, I just can't talk about with you."

"But Dad--"

"Brandon," I sigh. "Elio doesn't want me to be in his life," I tell him. "He doesn't want me anymore." With that, he stares at me and deflates, his shoulders and eyes lowering. "I messed up with him more than once, Brandon. I have to face the consequences of that, and I don't want you to get caught up in my mess _if_ I choose to attempt to make amends." He sits silently, staring at me. I have to look away to stop the aching in my chest. "This is not your heartbreak to mend, son."

"I just want you to be happy," he says after a moment. I shift so he's closer and smile at him as I pull him into my arms for some comfort.

"I am happy," I tell him, rubbing his back.

"I want you to be _happier_." I chuckle and nod, squeeze his shoulder, push the pain away. "Mom would have wanted you to move on, you know."

"I know, buddy," I say.

 

After he's gone, I walk into my bedroom and turn the lamp on. Under the covers, I take out his letters and reread the last one, my fingers tracing his handwriting as it gets sloppy and then more controlled, spots where he must have taken breaks, the dot of coffee I spilled on it years ago, the tear it came with in the top right corner.

_I suppose you made your choice, then. My father tells me you're expecting a son. That's exciting, I wish you'd told me yourself._

Staring up at the ceiling, I don't have to read the lines to know them. The paper is familiar, a sort of comfort blanket as it lays across my chest, his letters pressing against me like he used to.

_This will be my last letter I write if you're not going to reply. I move next week, as I mentioned in my last letter. If you wish to reach me, I'll attach a new address. Please, write to me. Please._

_I miss you._

The lines I'd recited so many nights now haunt me knowing the weight of my choice to stop writing him was now the reason he wouldn't allow me to speak with him. I'd let my one chance slip through my fingers to reach him once more. Though I had my reasons, it's nights like this that I question whether or not it was worth it. I try to sleep, but it doesn’t come. His last words are there in my mind, even though I didn't have the heart to read them. They're always there, waiting for me. Begging me to be stronger that I was all those years ago. I can only hope he might mean them again one day--

 

_All my love,_

_Oliver_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Moving forward, Vindicated will always be Oliver's POV, this ruined puzzle will always be Sam's, and (SPOILER) For You To Notice will be Elio's. I write these stories side by side, so if you put them next to each other you'll see that variation in voice and the true difference narration can make coming through stronger than ever. Thanks to everyone who's reading! This story is a wild ride.


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